Sterling Halloran was halfway through polishing the chrome bumper of his dark-green 1968 Ford Mustang when Hadley Lockwood came marching across the cul-de-sac. She held a sheet of paper above her head as though it were a court order. Her nineteen-year-old son, Bryson, followed behind her. Sterling recognized the expression on Hadley’s face immediately. It was the expression she wore whenever she believed the neighborhood was about to witness her winning an argument.
She stopped beside the Mustang. “Move away from the vehicle,” she said.
Sterling slowly lowered his cloth. “Good afternoon to you too.”
Hadley shoved the paper against his chest. “My son owns this car now.”
Sterling caught the document before it fell. His eyes moved over the page. BILL OF SALE. Vehicle: 1968 Ford Mustang Fastback. Purchase price: $35,000. Seller: Sterling Halloran. Buyer: Bryson Lockwood. Sterling stared at the signature beneath his name. Then he looked at Hadley. “You forged my signature.”
Hadley smiled. “You signed a valid agreement.”
“I didn't.”
Bryson stepped forward. He placed his palm against the Mustang's roof. “Mom said this car belongs to me. So hand over the keys.”
Sterling's eyes moved to the young man's hand. “Take your hand off the car.”
Bryson laughed. “Or what?”
“Take it off.”
Something in Sterling's voice made Bryson hesitate. But Hadley stepped between them. “You have until the police arrive.”
Sterling looked toward the street. Two police cruisers were already turning into Briarwood Glen Estates. He slowly removed his gray baseball cap.
Hadley smiled triumphantly. “There. Now you understand.”
Sterling shook his head. “No, Hadley.” He looked toward the approaching cruisers. “I think you're about to.”
The first cruiser stopped. Sergeant Tucker Brennan stepped out. Officer Lane Murchison followed. Both officers looked toward the Mustang. Then toward Sterling. They froze. Brennan's expression changed instantly. Both men straightened. Their hands rose in a crisp salute. “Chief Halloran, sir.”
Hadley's smile disappeared. Bryson's hand slipped from the Mustang. Sterling returned the salute. “Sergeant.”
Hadley stared at him. “Chief?”
Sterling looked at her calmly. “Yes.”
For eighteen months, she had believed Sterling Halloran was simply a quiet widower who enjoyed restoring old cars. She had never bothered to ask who he really was. Now, standing in front of the entire cul-de-sac, she was beginning to understand. And this was only the beginning.
Sterling Halloran had moved to Briarwood Glen because he wanted to disappear. For six years, he had served as chief of the Cederville Police Department. Before becoming chief, he had spent decades working patrol, investigations, narcotics, and internal affairs. He had spent most of his adult life being recognized. People knew his badge. They knew his voice. They knew his reputation. Sterling was tired of that. After retiring, he wanted mornings without phone calls and evenings without emergencies. He wanted coffee on the porch. He wanted his garage. And most of all, he wanted the Mustang.
The dark-green 1968 fastback had once been nothing more than a rusted shell. Margaret, Sterling's wife, had found it through an old classified advertisement. She had come home one evening holding a photograph.
“Look what I found.”
Sterling studied the picture. “That thing?”
“It has potential.”